Recherché
by Eggburtshamslice
Summary: A tale of an aeon who feasts on the living, and the man who will stop at nothing to slay him. Inspired in part by Bram Stoker's Dracula, what follows is the product of a warped imagination. There will be brief mentions of violence, and blood. Set in Konoha in the late 1800s, AU. Kakashi and Iruka, navigating the path to romance; slowly and with a high body count.
1. Chapter 1

In The Beginning

From its lush, rolling pasturelands of emerald sprinkled with lavender and clover where prized sheep and cattle grazed in the northwest, to the dense forests in the northeast where ancient conifers strained to touch the sky amidst their teak, pine, mahogany and cedar brethren, Fire Country was a land indisputably favored by the gods. Its temperate climes and fertile soil brought forth choice grains and produce year round, and from its sophisticated complex of hothouses in the east came the rarest medicinal herbs and horticultural specimens in the entire five nation region.

At the heart of the country was one of the crown jewels in the kami's chest of treasures – Konoha, the center of industry, the hub of domestic and foreign commerce and because their innovations in the technology of the day, it was the polestar of mechanization. Konoha, an unspoiled mix of the bucolic and the cosmopolitan, a place steeped in the tradition of its ancestors and yet, as current and relevant as tomorrow's newspaper.

Fifteen years before the Meiji Restoration opened Japan's ports to trade with the West and ushered sweeping changes to Japan's industrial efforts, the textile and lumber mills of Konoha were already established as the largest producer and exporter of dry good, home construction and shipbuilding materials in the Orient. After the Meiji Restoration was implemented, Konoha become the first territory to establish trade protocols with major European markets.

Bounded on the east by a sparkling aquiline sea, merchant ships pulled into her ports weekly offloading their freight of rare textile dyes, exotic spices such as cinnamon, turmeric and star anise and of course, coal oil necessary to keep the machines humming. In exchange for their gold and silver, these same ships would pull away from Konoha's shores, their cargo holds filled with bales of superfine wool, pallets of top grain leathers, dried herbs, lumber and barrels of aromatic oils.

It was the providence of the kami that made Konoha and by extension, Fire Country wealthy, but it was the people which inhabited the land that made Konoha rich beyond measure. Whether they dwelt in the stately manor homes in the west, the lowly row houses in the northeast, or in the humble bungalows scattered throughout the land, there was a sense of community, a genuine commitment to one another's well-being that bound the citizens together.

At least that was the case up until eight months ago . . .

Years ahead of its time in matters social and political, Konoha was the first of any territory in Japan to entrust the administration of a powerhouse of industry and commerce to the oversight of a woman. No ordinary woman to be sure, the lineage of Tsunade Senju was a storied, aristocratic and greatly respected one, within and beyond the boundaries of the region. She was a descendant of a forward thinking landowner, Hotaka Senju, whose radical ideals helped revolutionize animal husbandry and the hybridization of plants and trees, garnering respect and recognition for Fire Country as the leader in all things related to the sciences of agriculture and horticulture. With land's abundant resources and scores of willing workers, Tsunade's great great great great grandfather, Atsushi Senju built storehouses to stockpile their grains, wild honey and dried herbs. His children were dispatched as emissaries throughout the land to build a wider consumer base; his grandchildren would travel behind Fire Country's shores to introduce potential consumers to Konoha's bounty and ratify trade agreements between the nations.

In time, small factories sprung up to keep pace with demand.

In her great great great grandfather's day, travel between nations was a tedious and extremely dangerous undertaking, draft horse or yoked oxen drawn carts were subject to robbery or attack by roving brigands as they traversed the nations; should they reach their destination with cargo intact, it was still a fortnight's trip. Travel by sea in skiffs shortened delivery times, but perils from contrary winds and corsairs filled with picaroons posed a greater risk to life and limb. It was Katsuro Senju's idea to send along trained and armed security men with every shipment; dressed as humble farmers, the incidences of robbery declined and Konoha's reputation as a people not to be trifled with steadily grew. To this day, ox drawn carts play an important role in an annual celebration that commemorates Konoha's growth. Katsuro also began work on a port where ships could offload and load cargo in a safer, more controlled environment.

Her great great grandfather, Hisao Senju designed, financed and built the mills which would produce revenue for the then tiny village. As an envoy of Fire Country, Hisao was instrumental in the reforestation of Konoha's indigenous trees and the introduction of new genera of trees, plants and herbs within the land which would yield a larger variety of products to offer to their trade partners. With the revenue provided by these alliances, he purchased more and more parcels of land, building factories, schools and a repository for the riches Konoha generated. After years of entreaty and heavy taxation, he finally convinced the rulers of the country to expand Konoha's borders that her revenue might enhance the prestige and coffers of the nation; they did so only after he surrendered his rights to the land he'd bought. He lived to see the day when Konoha became a prosperous and independent territory within Fire Country.

Tsunade's grandfather, Hashirama Senju, was responsible for strengthening the infrastructure of the newly formed territory. Building hospitals, improving roads and rebuilding travel lanes to and from the mills and factories ensuring rapid turnaround times for incoming ships. He also rebuilt the entire town square, situating the constable's offices closer to the shore, for that's where most of the disturbances erupted. He was with the implementation of mounted border patrols and checkpoints inside the territory to keep it safe. He was also credited with the overhaul of the local government's hierarchy, setting up an entire branch to handle all foreign trade and monetary concerns related to trade. This in turn freed the Governor to focus on providing for the needs of those who lived in the territory.

Tsunade would capitalize on his work, ensuring the continued financial stability of the land and its people. She oversaw the construction of new transient housing alongside the port area, so that weary crews would have a place to lay their heads and rest, annexed the hospital, and established schools for tradesmen and artisans that the traditions of their ancestors might be preserved.

But if Tsunade were the brains of this realm, Ibiki was its brawn.

The son of an equestrian breeder and brother of Idate, Ibiki Morino dreamt of the day when he could escape the predictability of life in Konoha. As the eldest son, he would be expected to take over the family's business, but that life was too sedate, too monotonous for an ambitious young man like him. At age sixteen, he agreed to conscription into the military that he might see the world outside the fence posts of his family farm.

When he returned home after twelve years of service, honorably discharged he now walks with a limp after his mount was felled by a samurai's yajiri crushing his leg. Writhing in pain, he barely felt the slice of a katana as it carved two scars across his face; one that began under his right eye and extended past his jaw, the other runs beside his left eye, across his top and bottom lip and stops at his chin. His brother Idate was now running the family business and with no other marketable skills to fall back on, Ibiki applied for and was accepted as a member of Konoha's police force. He moved up the ranks steadily for ten years until he was appointed as Chief Inspector by the Governor.

He'd lived through the horrors of war, he'd seen evisceration, bodies bloated and swarming with maggots and those drawn and quartered. But the events of these last seven months were more terrifying than anything he'd ever encountered.

NOTES:

**Brigand**: bandits, especially those of mountain or forest regions.

**Picaroon:** rogue, vagabond, thief

**Hotaka** means: "step by step."

**Atsush**i means: "industrious."

**Katsuro** means: "victorious son."

**Hisao** means: "long-lived man."

**Ya**: Japanese word for 'arrow' used by the samurai during the feudal era of Japan, it was close to a metre in length or longer. Parts of the ya are: the _no_ or shaft, the _hane_(feathers), the _hazu_ or nock {the nock is the piece at the end of an arrow having a notch for the bowstring} made from goat or deer horn, and the _yajiri or yanone_ (war arrowhead). Wikipedia contributors. Ya (arrow). Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. November 4, 2013, 10:37 UTC. Available at: . ?title=Ya_(arrow)&oldid=580136910. Accessed September 27, 2014.


	2. The Cursed Blessing

Paper lanterns of orange, tan and yellow shooed away night's lingering shadows as the ritual convoy snaked through the orchards and groves in the west on this the first day of the eighth month of the year. Long before the morning sun shook off its slumber, the tinkle of tiny brass bells and the thunderous plodding of hooves against old stone pathways would rustle the citizenry of Konoha from their comfy beds. The rumble of forty seven ox drawn carts laden with timber would grow louder as they neared the central point of the territory and so too would the indistinct voices of stout workmen marching alongside the carts. On this the first day of the eighth month, sleepy-eyed residents would race to their windows and fling open their shutters, not to shake their fists in anger against the noisemakers, or to rain down dark curses on the heads of these roisterers as they traveled through the dusty streets. Instead, a tidal wave of cheers, whistles and applause swelled behind this ragtag caravan, nudging them onward, growing in volume as the people joined in the chorus of joyousness; this symphony of exuberance would reach its crescendo as soon as the last wooden wheel of the forty seventh cart rolled into the town's square. With the somber ringing of the temple bells west of the downtown area, a reverent hush would fall as the fragrances of sandalwood and myrrh rose to mingle with the prayers of the coterie of monks.

This early morning procession was but one part of a time honored tradition in Konoha, one that heralded a fortnight of festivities. Soon the monotonous drone of the carpenter's saws, the clangorous rhythm of the workman's hammers and the earthy scent of freshly sanded lumber would ignite a sense of expectation and wonder throughout the town. Over the next ten days, the population of Konoha would increase by more than half and as the inns filled to capacity, homeowners would extend their hospitality to those who'd made the sojourn from various parts of Fire Country.

And when the time had fully come, on the fifteenth day of the eighth month, Konoha's downtown area would be aglow with colorful paper lanterns strung up between the street lamps; ornately decorated booths would line the streets where farmers humbly stood to display the first fruits of their harvests. And on that great night of the festival, the warm night air would carry the pungent aromas of roasting sweet potatoes, pumpkin, taro and chestnuts into every open window. Beside every open window, there stood artful arrangements of pampas grass and bush clover, Tsukimi dango and raw chestnuts adorned family altars; these too were integral parts of the tradition thought to make the wishes and prayers of that particular household come to pass.

It was a simpler time back then, the one night of the year when children were allowed to stay up past their bedtimes to scamper over cobble stoned streets, playing hide and seek among the booths, while strolling musicians encouraged the adults forget their cares that they might sing and dance with abandon in the streets. Young lovers would jockey for space along the rocky shoreline to admire the beauty of the rising harvest moon's reflection on the tranquil surface of the water, while others spread blankets atop grassy knolls and hillocks to watch the moon reach its zenith against the backdrop of a cloudless indigo sky.

Ah yes, that's how things used to be.

But this year, on what was supposed to be the first night of the great festival, when the carefree laughter of children should have floated through the crowded streets, there was only the melancholy chorus of lupine howls issuing forth from the dense forests. The town's square, devoid of adornment, lay lifeless, dark and cold. And on the hillocks, where fragrant wild grasses swayed in the wind, fat black crickets provided the night's music; the waves of the sea lapped at the forsaken rocky shoreline.

Directly opposite the empty town square, bright yellow moonlight flooded the living area where a commanding figure stood. Police Inspector Ibiki Morino, a barrel chested, bear of a man, was hard to miss under normal circumstances, but tonight he stood out simply because his were the only open windows in a five mile radius. His eyes, black as coal and keener than a hawk's scanned vacated pathways and the well-lit side alleys, hoping to capture movement of any kind – but there was nothing.

Tonight, when the entire town should have come together as one to make merry, Ibiki knew that every family was huddled together behind their bolted doors and shuttered windows. There they would remain, kneeling before their family altars, chanting prayers and whispering petitions to their ancestors for a form of protection, a sense of security that he could no longer provide. He'd seen and understood their fear, he'd felt their helplessness, and he alone absorbed the brunt of their anger.

And he was the only man in town who stood a silent vigil, refusing to hide from the moon's illumination, though he too prayed;

for wisdom,

for favor from the gods who'd forsaken him and his people and failing those two . . .

he prayed for luck.

When Ibiki was young, the full moon's appearance signified a time of renewal and hope for the future; older now, he glared at the giant orb which ruled the night with contempt, for these last seven months the full moon's appearance had become an omen of brutality, a clarion call to the depths of hell to let loose a scourge from its darkest recesses.

_Times like this call for a stiff shot of brandy to calm the mind and settle the stomach, _that's what he told himself when he uncorked and poured the tawny liquid an hour ago. His beefy fingers clamped around the fragile crystal snifter in his palm as he thought about how these last months had flown by in a blur of disappointment and stomach-turning gore. The repeated outcry for a resolution to this menace daily crashed down on his broad shoulders, pushing him deeper into the miry clay of depression.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if that alone could push back the unrelenting darkness welling up in his soul; but the darkness would not yield, it pushed back, taunting him; the whispers on the breezes reminded him that if his carefully laid plans for this evening were to fail, the bony finger of death would beckon yet another captive before the dawn.

Twenty-two years spent in law enforcement, as a soldier and now a civilian hadn't prepared him for the carnage he witnessed this year. In the past seven months, seven vibrant, young women lost their lives in the same manner; their throats savagely shredded, their pale bodies exhibiting signs of exsanguination save for the tiny droplets of blood found on their clothing.

After the first victim was discovered in a garbage strewn alley near the port, there was no need for a formal investigation. The victim was a prostitute and her unfortunate end assumed as another hazard of her profession. She was found propped against a tree in the park by the shore; her arms demurely folded in her lap, her cloudy eyes fixed on the horizon.

A month later, the second victim, another prostitute, turned up outside the bordello that masqueraded as a boarding house, also near the port. Assuming the perpetrator to be a seafaring man, Ibiki doubled the amount of constables assigned to patrol the area; it proved a waste of time and manpower. With his own officers convinced that these murders were the victim's due for pursuing an immoral lifestyle, their 'investigations' were half-hearted at best, and the victims rotting corpses lay unclaimed in the morgue for weeks until relegated to the potter's field.

Up until that point, the only things linking the victims together were their occupation, and the locations where their bodies were discovered - the eastern edge of the town where transients found a night's lodging and men of a coarser nature lived and worked. Though his constables insisted that a lone, disgruntled customer was responsible for these murders, Ibiki could feel it in his bones; these cases weren't as cut and dried as they appeared.

Victims three and four in the following months shot holes through the constable's theories and reinforced Ibiki's suspicions.

Victim number three was a washerwoman, her body was found in the alley behind the laundry, less than ten feet away from the Administrative complex in the center of town. The next one, a talented, comely seamstress; her body was discovered at the base of an apple tree, mere steps away from Ibiki's backyard. The killer it seemed was taunting the police, playing a bloody game of 'catch me if you can.'

As with the others before them, these two young women had no family members to claim their bodies and they too were interred in unmarked pauper's graves.

Ibiki knew that whoever or whatever was responsible for the loss of these four young lives didn't fit the bill of the average spree killer; for one thing, he was extremely precise. These weren't crimes of passion, but purposeful murders. But to what end? What was the killer's angle and why was Konoha his target? The horrendous loss of life was disturbing in and of itself, but the timing of these events puzzled him.

Konoha's inaugural shipment of goods to the west was less than five months off and with it came the opportunity to establish the territory's reputation for quality in a broader marketplace a continent away. Was this the work of an envious neighboring land to break the spirit of Konoha's people? Or were factions opposed to Japan being bullied into trade with foreigners? Those were the questions that simmered on the backburner of his mind. Whatever forces were behind this spate of bloodshed took precedence.

Years of police training taught him that it was physically impossible to leave nothing behind or take nothing away from a crime scene. Yet, there were never foot prints which remained at or near the scene to indicate the path the killer took toward or away from his victims, neither was there any evidence of the victims being dragged to the places where they were eventually found. No scraps of clothing or strands of hair pulled from the assailant's head in self-defense were ever discovered either, absolutely nothing from which to develop a solid lead. The wily mongrel didn't even leave behind a scent for the bloodhounds to track.

However, despite the murderer's precision, a distinct pattern slowly emerged.

First off, the killer was very particular about _when_ he chose to hunt his prey; the murders occurred once a month during the three night phase of a full moon. He also took great care to lay the victims' hands either in their laps, or he would intertwine their fingers as if in prayer. Secondly, none of the women's bodies were sexually violated, even though the first two victims worked in the 'sex for hire' business, the killer apparently the killer derived no sexual thrills from overpowering defenseless women.

What intrigued Ibiki most was even though the victims throats were violently ripped asunder, the carotid artery which delivers oxygenated blood to the brain, was always cleanly cut, as if a surgical instrument like a scalpel had been used. How this maniac managed to drain the blood from their bodies without splattering it all over the crime scene was still a mystery. Ibiki allowed himself a small chuckle when he recalled a meeting with the town's physicians and surgeons, after the third victim was found. Questioning these upstanding men of the community and treating them like common criminals earned him a good forty-five minute scolding from the Governor, but he had no regrets. Sure, he'd ruffled quite a few feathers that day, and he hoped he wouldn't need their services anytime soon, still, it allowed him to rule them out as suspects.

Another aspect to the killer's pattern was that all these murders were committed in the stillness of the night, and yet no one heard sounds of a struggle or panicked screams for help.

Lastly, each victim was a woman under the age of twenty five, and each one had no known family in Konoha to demand justice on their behalf.

The killer changed his tactics with fifth, sixth, and seventh victims. All three of those young ladies were well-educated, respectable women from noble families, and when news of their deaths was made public month after month, the halcyon town was thrown into an uproar. Paranoia cut a swath through the tight-knit community like a stiff breeze through a field of white headed dandelions; wariness unknown before, turned the most mundane social interactions into waltzes of polite unease.

It was the scuttling of rumors that did the most damage.

There were those of the opinion that a ravening pack of wolves or some other creature of the woods was responsible for this avalanche of misfortune; '_the influence of the_ _moon'_ they said, fueled the lust for human blood and drove these beasts into a feeding frenzy. Still others believed the recent renovation of and excavation near the old manor house south of the cemetery had angered a powerful spirit being; destroying young lives was its way of '_exacting vengeance on those who dared disrupt its eternal sleep'_, or so the rumors went.

It was easy to understand why the guileless townsfolk were so quick to believe such outlandish things; these were desperate times after all. But with a deranged misogynist on the loose, Ibiki had little time to entertain baseless conjecture and silly superstitions. He trusted his gut which kept insisting that this killer walked on two legs, not four and that this so called phantom possessed a physical body – one that could be apprehended and eventually executed for his crimes.

"You sick bastard," he snarled, as he scanned the town square once more. "You will slip up one day."

The mere thought of coming face to face with a psychopath of this caliber, the opportunity to probe the depths of a reprobate's mind, perchance to discover the motives behind the madness twisted Ibiki's lips into a twisted smile. Though he'd admit it to none other, it was the level of intelligence and sheer bravado this killer possessed that garnered his grudging respect. What angered him however was the realization that bringing this madman to justice still wouldn't give him the peace of mind he sought. Wrapping his hands around the neck of this cold-blooded fiend, and watching his very last breath escape his body had become an obsessive dream that hounded him day and night.

A final swirl of the amber liquid in his glass released a heady bouquet of peaches, pears and a hint of aged wood to quiet his unruly thoughts. "Ah well," he said raising his glass in mock salute to the moon. "I always did enjoy a spirited game of cat and mouse."

As the liqueur's mellow heat eased its way down, his confidence was bolstered. He'd dispatched thirty of his constables and fifty other deputized men throughout the town and countryside; from the shadows they'd cast an inescapable web for their quarry to step into.

_This is the night, _he thought, _when the reign of terror comes to an end. _

Turning away from the window, soft beams of light illumined the spacious and sparsely furnished living area that doubled as his bedroom and remote command post during the full moon's phase; as usual, his lightweight wool overcoat was draped across the back of a chair beside the couch, and his heavy black boots stood in readiness beside the front door. With another sip of brandy and then a loosening of his narrow black tie and itchy starched collar, Ibiki sank back into the buttery soft brown leather couch and closed his eyes.

The crunch of gravel beneath heavy boots stirred him from a light doze long before the frantic rapping at his front door would have; expecting a report about the killer's apprehension at any moment was why the slight bit of rest he got was fitful. He was alert and on his feet in an instant, his overcoat clutched in his left hand.

"Inspector," the man's voice pled from behind the oaken door. "Inspector, please – come quickly!"

Ibiki ground his teeth and took a deep breath, judging from the panicked tone of voice, he knew this wasn't one of his constables. _Damn it! _ _This wasn't supposed to happen!_

The ornate brass doorknob slammed against the interior wall when he flung it open to reveal a clearly distraught and barely recognizable fisherman; his trademark sunglasses sat crookedly atop the familiar blue bandana, and his sweat soaked blue shirt, flecked with vomitus heaved with every nervous breath.

"Ebisu," he said when he stooped to pull on his boot, "for god's sake, get a hold of yourself man!"

"But, Inspector," he panted . . . the boat . . . my boat – she's … there's a body …"

Ibiki ran a calloused palm from the nape of his neck, over the smooth skin of his bald head and down his scarred face in order to calm himself; it just wouldn't do to vent his frustrations on a civilian, especially one who'd just received the fright of his life. Gingerly pushing the man away from his doorstep with one hand and closing the door behind him with the other, Ibiki took off toward the port with Ebisu at his heels struggling in vain to describe the sight that greeted him before dawn.

"I think . . . it's one of the . . . one of the Hyuga girls," he breathed trying to keep pace with the Inspector's long strides.

When _that_ name rolled off Ebisu's tongue, Ibiki felt his stomach drop to his soles of his boots. Wasn't it bad enough that the killer slipped past him and his men to claim another victim? And if Ebisu's guess was correct, now he'd have to contend with this posturing, elitist family breathing down his neck or worse, fight off their attempts to remove him from office by wielding their political clout.

He shook his head and quickened his pace. Now wasn't the time to jump to conclusions.

The sun's rays weren't strong enough to burn off the cool, dense fog yet, but Ibiki was able to make out the members of Ebisu's crew standing on the dock, their heads bowed in respect for the dead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his officers taking statements from a group of fishermen whose boat was moored near Ebisu's. Ibiki mentally chalked that up to yet another waste of time and paper, considering the one they sought usually didn't leave witnesses.

"Oi, Inspector, over here!"

A figure clad in black from head to foot slowly emerged from the fog's embrace, waving it's arms wildly as if that booming voice weren't enough to grab everybody's attention. Making a beeline for Ibiki was the one man in the entire territory he did not want to see again so soon. _By the gods, _Ibiki thought_, it's far too early in the day for this flibbertigibbet!_

Genma Shiranui, the town's coroner and mortician, was a high-spirited man, so enthusiastic about his duties that his conversations often breached the bounds of propriety and good taste. He was a lifelong student of thanatology, one who delighted in explaining the mechanics of death to any and all who would listen. Ibiki unfortunately, was in no mood to hear him prattle on about the marvels of rigor mortis at the moment. To be fair however, it was due to Genma's incessant ramblings about the life cycle of a blow fly and how it could be used to determine an approximate time of death that helped Ibiki crack a difficult homicide a few years ago. _Maybe in the midst of his blustering he might prove helpful again._

"Morning Inspector," the young man called out as he came closer. "Looks we got another one, huh?"

Ibiki simply nodded and kept walking, hoping his stern demeanor would dissuade further inane conversation; knowing Genma as well as he did, it probably wouldn't work, but it was worth a try. In the blink of an eye, Genma was at his right side, peering around him to extend his condolences to Ebisu.

"So, I hear tell that you found our latest victim," he said. "Sorry about that old man, that must have been quite a shock. But don't worry," he added gesturing to his own chest and Ibiki's, "between me and the Inspector here, we'll put a stop to all this and make the town safe for our people again, isn't that right Inspector?"

Ibiki nodded and kept walking.

Genma continued his line of questioning about the body's positioning, if a trail or pool of blood was near or underneath the body and so forth; Ebisu for his part stammered incoherently, turning greener with each passing minute of this forensic inquisition. And as Genma rambled on about the difficulties of preparing a body that had been left exposed to the elements, one of the most far-fetched, highly improbable, but not entirely impossible thoughts ran through Ibiki's mind:

_Here is a man who has an uncanny tendency to meet or beat my officers and me to every crime scene; a man who embraces death like a long lost paramour, and one who has access to a myriad of surgical instruments used for autopsies or embalming. Surely, he couldn't be the one who was-_

Ibiki shook his head. _No, this one talks too much and lacks the type of finesse the killer's shown thus far. Still, it might not be a bad idea to bring him in for questioning at some point. _

A nudge in the ribs from Genma brought his thoughts back the present. "It'll be a proud day when we finally catch this blackguard."

This time Ibiki cut his eyes at the other man sharply enough to stave off whatever else he was planning to say; Genma in turn smiled brightly at him, his brown eyes twinkling, as his tobacco stained teeth clamped down on his silver tipped kiseru.

The assembled throng of fishermen parted as Ibiki stepped onto the wooden planks of the dock, but it wouldn't be necessary to board the boat in order to find victim number eight. There she lay for all to see near the bow of the ship, her hands folded across her abdomen, her once beautiful face frozen in a rictus of surprise, her eyes beclouded by death stared accusingly. Like the others, her throat was ripped to shreds, her fragile body drained of blood; her clothing was intact and her expensive jewels sparkled as the sun rose. She was definitely one of the Hyuga family members, the long jet black hair elaborately pinned behind her pale ears, and the family crest etched into her delicate pearl earrings were enough to confirm her identity.

Without taking his eyes off the young lady, Ibiki instructed one of the constables standing nearby to disperse the crowd and gather up whatever evidence he could find.

"The scene is all yours now Mr. Shiranui," he said before turning his back on the boat. "I'll have a few of my men notify the family and bring them to your office for positive identification and to make arrangements for her burial."

With that, Ibiki strode toward the Administrative center of the town, wanting to submit a preliminary report to the Governor's office before the Hyuga family showed up to lodge a complaint. By the time he'd retrieved a scrap of paper from his coat pocket and scrawled a brief note, most of the townspeople were gathering in the square. Slipping the note underneath the door, he stood upright, his eyes focused on the building one hundred and fifty paces ago. He moved briskly through the crowd, unable to meet the eyes of the people he'd sworn to protect; he did his level best to ignore the jeers, the tears and the angry murmurs that followed him as he crossed the plaza to the constable's office.

Once inside, he breathed a sigh of relief; the station house was quiet this morning, his men wrapped up in their own grief, and feelings of utter powerlessness. Down the hall and to the left was his office, a fortress of silence where he could indulge his bitter disappointment in private. But the flickering light of an oil lamp, the sound of quiet conversation coming bouncing off the wall in the corridor drew his attention. _Maybe the Governor and the advisory council have come to curse me to my face_, he thought. But when he opened the door to his office, the conversation between the three men seated before his desk came to an abrupt end.

Their manner of dress, like that of the European envoys he'd seen months earlier, tailored Western suits of brown, led him to assume that they represented the Hyuga family in some capacity; lawyers, no doubt.

"Gentlemen," he said as he stood beside the open door. "How may I be of assistance to you this morning?"

The three men stood and faced him each politely bowing; it was the brown haired man in the middle, the one with a scar across his nose who spoke first.

"Am I correct in assuming that you are Inspector Ibiki Morino?"

Ibiki said nothing, as he maintained eye contact with the man and dipped his head slightly.

"Well then, allow me to introduce myself and my companions," the young man said politely. "I am Dr. Iruka Umino and these are my traveling companions." Broadly gesturing to his left he said, "This is Mr. Kotetsu Hagane, and to my right is Mr. Izumo Kamizuki."

_These fresh faced, bright-eyed, smiling young men, all of them under fifty years of age, weren't likely to have any connection to the __Hyuga_, Ibiki thought. _The Hyuga tend to surround themselves with stodgy old men of experience and stoic character._

"I thought you gentlemen wouldn't arrive until after the family was officially notified," said Ibiki, "but since you're here, I won't be able to release any information until the police report's been processed, so if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I have a great deal of work to do."

"We're here to be of assistance to you, Inspector," countered Dr. Umino. "You see we've come to -"

"Just leave your information with the man at the front desk," Ibiki said as he took his seat. "Good day, gentlemen."

Offended by the pointed dismissal, Dr. Umino's voice rose when he said, "I've traveled a great distance and I have vital information for your eyes only Inspector. I will not leave this place until you've heard me out." Suddenly a heavy, brown leather portfolio was released from his hand, scattering the papers on the desk as it landed with a resounding thump. "This portfolio represents years of research and investigation by my late father. The identity of the murderer who has stricken fear in the hearts of your people and taken the lives of innocent young women is right under your nose. Will you dismiss me now, Inspector?"

NOTES:

**Halcyon**: calm, peaceful, or tranquil.

**Flibbertigibbet**: a chattering or flighty, light-headed person.

**Kiseru**: is a Japanese smoking pipe.


	3. Recherché: Discovery

For a split second, a brilliant flash of anger shone in Umino's eyes, but it quickly gave way as regret registered, mayhap for the hasty words he knew he could not retract; outright embarrassment soon phased over his face, making the thin horizontal scar across his nose stand in bas relief against the ruddiness of his cheeks. Immediately thereafter came a straightening of broad shoulders, as if physically buttressing himself to withstand further opposition or interruption; finally, the young man executed a swift, flawless, formal bow.

"I'm sorry Inspector," the good doctor softly said. "Disrespect was never my intention." Smoothing the heels of his hands along the lower part of his jacket as he spoke seemed to aid in the recovery of his composure.

_Well this one's an easy read_, Ibiki thought. _This is man who believes his cause is just – a man with deep conviction and strong principles._

His overall bearing suggested a middle class upbringing, though it was obvious he'd lived abroad; his pattern and rhythm of speech was unmistakably Japanese, but if you listened closely it was hard to miss the hint of a European accent. Average height and weight for a man in his late twenties, his facial features were chiseled, yet somehow still rounded; his musculature, apparent through the tailored suit, meant he was a man given to regular, vigorous physical activity. He had an indomitable, determined glint in his cocoa colored eyes that was in complete disharmony with his sly grin –as if he'd just told a joke and no one other than him understood the punch line.

In addition to a flash paper temperament and the genuine sincerity he projected, the other thing that stood out about Umino was . . . the brown; everything about the man was shaded in brown. His skin was the color of black tea mixed with cream - the sort of fellow who could easily disappear into a milling crowd and yet command the attention of everyone around him. That thin, crooked scar bisecting his face was of a sepia tone, which indicated its age and his hair, slicked back with pomade and gathered in a low tail had a rusty, auburn tint.

Gracefully standing erect now, he looked Ibiki squarely in the eye and smiled. "I'll not mince words Inspector," he said. "We have less than three weeks to hunt down and exterminate a killer. But if we allow this window of opportunity to pass us by, the only witness to another slaying will be the next full moon."

_I'll be dammed; how did he know exactly when the killer preferred to strike?_

A subtle tilt of the head was Ibiki's way of accepting the apology as well as an acknowledgement of the truth spoken; a flick of the wrist granted his permission for the young men to retake their seats.

At this point, dismissal was the farthest thing from Ibiki's mind.

Intrigued? Of course he was.

Their sudden appearance, the information they were so eager to share, may well have been a small mercy from the gods – an answer to the collective prayers of those who believed that the gods were as omniscient and merciful as they were purported to be.

But Ibiki's secular, suspicious nature would not allow him to rejoice, for he'd seen men of their ilk before.

Mouthpieces, shills for a cold-hearted murderer posing as learned, well-mannered and reasonable men. As far as Ibiki was concerned, they were probably nothing more than conservatively dressed marionettes, morally, ethically bankrupt men hiding behind a glossy veneer of respectability – men who wouldn't hesitate to mortgage the last bits of their humanity for a few choice pieces of gold. As for the portfolio lying in the middle of his desk, it was like a bucket of bloody fish scraps, cast upon the waters to draw a shark like Ibiki closer to them, to make him open wide his mouth and divulge factual information that they might ascertain how far the constables were from uncovering the identity of a homicidal maniac.

_I may have been born at night, _thought Ibiki wryly_, but it sure as hell wasn't last night_.

Then again, if these young men weren't puppets of a madman, then they were something equally despicable; thrill seekers – strange little men unnaturally fixated on or somehow excited by accounts of the macabre. It was sickening. But what worried Ibiki most was the fact that they reeked of salt air and old money; these travelers from afar come to gorge themselves on the rancid fat of thrice damned superstitions and old wives' tales.

All of a sudden, the things Ibiki took for granted these past few months began to gnaw at his conscience; the rumors and indiscriminate whisperings that buzzed around him like swollen gadflies – the gossip that flittered through the shops, the seedy taverns and the docks. These tales from the dark side of life he was incapable of quarantining, had slithered past him day by day and eventually, they'd wormed their way into the ears and out of the mouths of braggadocious midshipmen, only to wash up on distant shores like gaudy trinkets of gospel truth – the endless repetition of these embellished fabrications became fodder for the masses, those with an unslakable hunger and ears itching to hear stories of the mysterious and dangerous Orient.

And if this triumvirate of dandies had heard of Konoha's misfortune wherever they came from, there was no telling how far and wide the stories had spread. There would be no way to prevent the venom from poisoning the minds of those who held power to limit or bring Konoha's trade aspirations with Europe and the Americas to a screaming halt.

The very idea set Ibiki's teeth on edge.

Still, they were nothing like the usual wild-eyed conspiracy theorists, the ultra-religious fear mongers or the moonstruck plain folk which daily paraded through this office demanding to be heard. For that reason alone, Ibiki would let them have their say, he'd plunder their brains for whatever valuable information he could find, and then chuck them out of his sight.

From the far corner of the room, the measured click of the brass pendulum inside the squat grandfather clock - the unvaried tick of its second hand, these were the only sounds in the tension filled room. As well it should be; silence and occasional eye contact were the only offensive tools a good investigator needed in any interview process. If Ibiki said nothing, did nothing for long enough, his subjects would soon reveal their true intentions via subtle nonverbal cues or their inappropriate gestures.

An outstanding investigator like Ibiki knew what to look for and how to interpret the deeper meaning behind a subject's or suspect's actions.

With his elbow propped on the chair's armrest, his brawny fingers, one curled over his lips, the other pressing into his cheekbone, Ibiki's eyes darted between the leather bound folder on his desk, the unperturbed Dr. Umino, the engaged Mr. Kamizuki and the sullen Mr. Hagane.

_Hagane Kotetsu; this one was another easy read._

He stood out from the others because he was the only one with facial hair; as trivial as that seemed, it was a major indicator of this young man's contradictory personality. His goatee, neatly trimmed, perfectly symmetrical and jet black, like the smoke that rose from the lumber mills was in stark contrast to the hair on his head; it was wild and stuck out in every direction as if he'd carelessly finger combed it and purposely left it mussed. Clearly, he was a man of action, one given to 'doing' something, rather than expending the energy to formulate the words to explain his actions.

That was the other reason why he stood out – he was the only one who could not keep still for longer than a few minutes.

From the time he took his seat, his heel was constantly tapping against the floorboards, and his fingers, when they weren't brushing along his goatee, were drumming against his thigh. There was an earthly shrewdness that surrounded this strapping young man, an almost savage instinct for survival that his two intellectual friends lacked. His eyes were as black as a starless night and deeper than the pit of the ocean; Ibiki could empathize with his doleful expression, for this was a man plucked from his natural element, a man more at ease in the wide open grasslands or tramping through the moors. Instead, he'd allowed himself to be entangled by the silken cords of social etiquette – that explained why his eyes roamed over everything in the office, as if searching for an expeditious route of escape.

Ibiki was certain this one was hiding something – provoking him to spill his secrets probably wouldn't take much effort.

The last young man, Kamizuki Izumo was the most interesting of the three. He seemed a gallimaufry of his friend's personality traits, and yet, Ibiki could tell he maintained his own unique viewpoint. He bore a passing physical resemblance to Umino, what with the darker skin, the sinewy physique and slicked back hair pulled into a low tail, yet he possessed a form of guardedness more pronounced than Kotetsu's. He carried himself with a regal bearing, as did Umino, never once averting his eyes from Ibiki's as if determining the other man's worth – this wasn't haughtiness, no, this was the mark of a self-assured man. And just like Hagane, there was a dangerous edge lurking behind those intelligent, piercing brown eyes; unlike Hagane, this one had book smarts, fortified with a healthy measure of common sense, and so provoking him to say or do anything without giving thought to the consequences wouldn't be easy.

The sound of heavy, hurried footsteps in the hallway tore his attention from the young men; someone moving with that kind of determined urgency always meant bad news.

There was a light rap on the door just as the latch clicked against the worn strike plate and a smiling man dressed in black entered -

At once, the knot in Ibiki's stomach tightened and he strained to focus on the mess of papers lying before him so that none would notice the frustration he felt.

"Oh . . . excuse me gentlemen," Genma said when he closed door behind him. "No one told me you were in a meeting, Inspector. Heh, it was so quiet in here, it felt like I was back in my own shop for a minute." Tapping the brim of his hat, he nodded to the young men as he walked toward Ibiki's desk. "Please, keep your seats; I'll just be a moment."

Grinning like a hungry cat in a room full of lame, juicy mice, Genma triumphantly waved a slip of paper before the irritated Inspector's eyes. "Got a positive identification for you; representatives from the family just left my place. Yep, I never could tell those Hyuga girls apart—'stair steps' they were, practically identical if you ask me."

Turning his back on Ibiki for a moment, Genma stuck out his hand. "Name's Shiranui Genma, coroner and undertaker," he proudly said. "I know just about everyone in this territory, goes along with the job you know – I tend to make acquaintance with people one way or another, but I can't say I've ever seen you three before."

Ibiki rolled his eyes; _that_ _Genma, always flapping his gums and poking his pointed nose into things that don't concern him; dang fool is about as subtle as a herd of elephants browsing through a china shop. _Still, the man had a way of wheedling information from the unsuspecting with just a wide, yellow toothed smile and a questionable sense of humor.

Rising from his seat to shake the proffered hand, he heard Iruka say, "Umino, Dr. Umino, Mr. Hagane and Mr. Kamizuki. We've only just arrived in the territory, last night as a matter of fact."

As the conversation, rather Genma's running commentary continued Ibiki forced himself to concentrate on the form in his hand; with a deep sigh, the soft leather of the chair's back melted around him after he read the first line of text:

**_Hyuga Hitomi, twenty three years of age; cause of death, exsanguination._**

A beautiful young woman, with a lifetime of opportunities and happiness stretching before her, was now a cold, impersonal statistic. Hers had been a life of privilege in which she wanted for nothing, but she defied her family and dared to strike out on her own, determined to to serve the underprivileged, the neglected and the forgotten.

Hardly three weeks had passed since she returned to the territory after a year spent abroad.

Even now, Ibiki could vividly recall the fallout that accompanied her decision to intern as a pediatric nurse in the slums of London; he could still see how her mother, weeping bitterly as she stood on the wharf to bid bon voyage to her eldest daughter.

But on a warm autumn night one year later, the entire family turned out to welcome her home on that same wharf; Ibiki could still see Hitomi running down the gangplank and falling into the embrace of her parents - jubilantly clutching a nursing certificate in one hand, and a valise filled with memories in the other. Elegant horse drawn carriages were lined up by the wharf that night, to fetch her and her family members to the Hyuga estate for an elaborate welcome home party, one that was well attended by Konoha's upper crust.

Her parents, so concerned for her safety while she was in a foreign land, had allowed her to wait unaccompanied for a ride home one fateful moonlit night; and now, this vibrant young woman lay on a cold porcelain slab in the morgue, fifty feet from the wharf . . . brutally slaughtered five miles from her ancestral home.

He forced himself to look away from the coroner's report that his eyes might linger for a tick on the unopened, leather bound case lying before him.

Expertly hand tooled, its stitches weathered by time and careful handling, were a darker brown than the portfolio itself.

_Maybe I'm grasping at straws, but could it be that this ordinary piece of cured animal hide holds the key to bringing a killer to justice?_

In the very center of the case was a kamon, one Ibiki was familiar with, having seen it numerous times before and during his stint in the military. Slowly tracing the raised emblem with his finger, he interrupted Genma's rambling monologue to ask, "Umino - that's your surname correct?"

Iruka tilted his head, his smiling eyes falling on Ibiki's finger as it hovered over the embossed design.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Shimizu is the surname of my mother's family. That portfolio belonged to my maternal grandfather; it was a gift my mother gave to my father on their first wedding anniversary." Sadness gradually overshadowed his smile. "It's one of the few things I have left to remember my parents by."

"I see . . . you're recently bereaved I take it?" Pulling the leather binder closer to himself, Ibiki could feel every eye in the room raking over him – Genma, stunned by the crude tone of Ibiki's voice, stood there with his mouth agape; Hagane angrily fidgeted in his seat, and the combined weight of Izumo and Iruka's grief almost bowled Ibiki over.

"My mother," Iruka continued, "she died several years ago, and my father . . . he passed away in May of this year; that's why it took us so long arrive here, you see, I had to settle his affairs, close up the house and -"

"So," Ibiki said, "this kamon it isn't from Fire Country. Where exactly did your mother's family come from, Doctor Umino?"

Iruka's eyes misted over and he swallowed hard before answering. "My mother's family was from Water Country; they were . . . buraku, tanners by trade and from what I understand, some of the finest saddle makers in the entire five country region-"

"What the hell does this have to do with anything?" the one named Kotetsu growled. "I thought we came here to prevent a monster from killing again -"

"Please," Iruka hissed when he stretched out his arm to restrain his friend. "I'm certain our goal and his are one and the same." His hand fell to his companion's wrist and he gently shook it. "Kotetsu," he said in a comforting tone, "Inspector Morino doesn't know us from a hole in the ground – we've barged into his office first thing this morning without a letter of introduction preceding us or a confirmed appointment. Calm down, he's just trying to understand who we are."

The black haired man to Dr. Umino's left grit his teeth and jerked his wrist away. "Damn it Iruka! This always happens when we try to enlist law enforcement's help. I keep telling you we need to handle this thing ourselves!"

"Iruka's right," said Izumo. We have to work through the proper channels. Like it or not, the local law enforcement officials will-"

"Waste our time," Kotetsu huffed. "We know what we're looking for and how to deal with it! This meeting's just going to end with him kicking us out of here and thinking we're crazy."

A terse conversation in an indistinct dialect ensued as Dr. Umino and Mr. Kamizuki cajoled and pleaded with a reluctant Kotetsu for patience.

"Dr. Umino", said Ibiki, "perhaps if you could help me understand what this 'thing' is that you're looking for, I might be more inclined to help you find it."

Kotetsu folded his arms over his chest, while Umino and Izumo exchanged hesitant glances.

Turning his attention to the still befuddled undertaker, Ibiki asked, "Genma isn't there something, or rather, _someone_ that needs your undivided attention?"

"Nope," he smiled and said as he slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned against the desk. "Miss Hyuga will keep for a few minutes more, besides, I'm curious about the contents of that solander on your desk. I understand that the elder Dr. Umino was a physician, so you just might need my help to decipher his chicken scratch notes. No offenses to you Dr. Umino, of course. You're a Doctor of philosophy, not medicine, right?"

"Anthropology," he corrected, "my doctorate is in the field of anthropology and archeology."

Iruka reached for the portfolio. "Although my father was a physician, he became obsessed later in life with a fellow's doctor's research on the supernatural." Opening the leather case before Ibiki, Iruka flipped through the wrinkled, tattered pages filled with detailed drawings of what appeared to be wolves, bats and hideously deformed humanoid beings; images of grotesque creatures, sailed past Ibiki's eyes until they came rest on an ink splotched page filled with notes.

"What we're looking for Inspector," said Iruka "is a demon known as a Jiki-Ketsu-Gaki; a wailing corpse who thirsts for blood. Some of the oldest and most powerful of these beings are said to be able to stalk their prey invisibly."

"I see," Ibiki said with a sigh as he leaned back into his chair. "A gaki, a mythical creature . . . _that's _what we're looking for? Listen, _Dr_. Umino, I wish you luck in your search for a being that doesn't exist outside of a fairy tale, but what I'm looking for is a human, a killer, not some phantom."

"Yes, but Jiki-Ketsu-Gaki, have shape shifting abilities - they can transform themselves into animals or into the form of a living human being at will and -"

"Then perhaps you should share your 'research' with the monks at the Fire Temple Dr. Umino. Sounds more like you need the assistance of an exorcist, not an officer of the law." Slamming the portfolio closed and pushing toward Iruka, he added, "Good day Dr. Umino. Now, if you and your friends wouldn't mind exiting quickly and quietly -"

"But, Inspector-"

"I said good day, sir!"

The noise of the office door opening once more was covered up by the sound of Ibiki's booming voice. Suddenly, silently, a tall, thin woman with short black hair, wearing an indigo colored kimono approached and stood beside Ibiki's desk.

"Moring Miss Shizune," they all heard Genma say. "You weren't looking for me, were you?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Shiranui," she said with a smile. Bowing before the three young men and then to Ibiki, she said, "My apologies for disrupting your meeting, but Lady Tsunade requests your presence immediately, Inspector."

"Our 'meeting' just adjourned," Ibiki assured her as he stood from his seat and cut his eyes at the three young men. "I'll walk you out Shizune."

"Well, if it's all right with you Inspector," said Genma, "and with you Dr. Umino, I wouldn't mind having a look at the research – you know, I've always been somewhat curious about the supernatural myself-"

"Some other time perhaps, Mr. Shiranui," Iruka respectfully said. "A visit to the Fire Temple wasn't on our agenda for today, but as Inspector Morino so kindly pointed out, it just might prove beneficial."

Flummoxed, Kotetsu snapped, "What?" "But we're supposed to go to the-"

"Yes, come along 'Tetsu," said Izumo. "We'd hate to be responsible for interrupting their mid-morning prayers."

Kotetsu angrily glanced between his friends as if he'd never seen either of them before.

"What the hell's the matter with you two?"

NOTES:

Secular: not spiritual; of or relating to the physical world; controlled by the government rather than the church or temple.

Moor: a tract of land preserved for game.

Hitomi Hyuga: a conveniently disposable character; rest assured, I would never kill off the shy, yet strong-willed Hinata or her younger sister Hanabi.

Kamon: a family crest, a Japanese heraldic symbol.

Gallimaufry: hodgepodge, jumble, confused medley.

Shimizu: "Pure or clear water."

Buraku or burakumin: "hamlet people," an outcast group at the bottom of the Japanese social order, in the feudal era. These were people considered 'impure,' tainted by death because of the work they did (executioners, undertakers, butchers or tanners). Wikipedia contributors, "Burakumin," _Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia,_ . ?title=Burakumin&oldid=628053550 (accessed October 19, 2014).

Solander: a case that held maps or other large documents. It was made to resemble a book, having the front cover serve as a lid.

Jiki-Ketsu-Gaki: creatures of Japanese myth; because of the way they are depicted as skeletal beings with distended bellies, abnormally small mouths and long thin throats, they are also known as "hungry-ghosts"; these nocturnal creatures or spirits have been cursed with an insatiable hunger or thirst for blood, in particular as a result of their bad deeds or the evil intent they possessed in their lifetime. Also known as classes of preta, Buddhist monks conduct a special day of observance in mid-August to remember the gaki; offerings of food and drink are left around the temples in the belief that the hungry ghosts can be released from their torment.

Gaki: hungry dead or spoiled child. 


	4. Recherché: Routines and Revelations

_Well, this was definitely one for the record books._

A frantic fisherman beating down his front door first thing this morning, scared witless after finding a dead woman on his boat. This young woman, the latest victim of a madman, had a pedigree that dated back to Konoha's founding, a profile higher than all the stars in the welkin.

And then there was the voluble Genma; a nervous, verbose bundle of enthusiasm, chock full of cheesy grins and fallacious expectations. Ibiki held his breath every time the man opened his mouth in knuckle whitening fear he'd let something of importance slip while he regaled a captive audience, a trio of time wasters from a distant land.

And now this, a summons to meet with the Governor, a winsome escort provided to guarantee his prompt attendance, perchance to take notes for posterity during what promised to be another ear-blistering, ego-deflating reprimand.

All this he was expected to handle with aplomb and diplomacy while operating on less than five hours sleep, no breakfast, not a sip or even a whiff of tea to kick start his sluggish mind.

A moment to pity his lot, a sigh and then the thought –

_Could this morning get any worse?_

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to give up smoking," he mumbled to Shizune as they left his office.

A heartening touch to the tip of his shoulder and a wan smile from the Governor's assistant wasn't going to be enough to satisfy the restless, empty feeling, nor calm his racing mind. The unspoken message of comfort shining in her eyes wasn't enough to make him believe that things would work out any better than his carefully laid, perfectly executed and completely empty trap had last night. On some level, her kindness was appreciated, but this sort of unease was like a giant holding a treasure over his head; no matter how high he jumped, or how long tried to figure another way of reaching it, his efforts would never be enough to grab hold of the prize.

Snaking around the corner which led into the main constabulary, he and Shizune were instantly swept up inside a vortex of sight, sound and smell - splashed down into a sea of dark blue uniforms undulating like frothy waves as his officers briskly steered crooked paths around them. Flotsam and jetsam of superfluous conversation, boisterous jesting and spirited laughter sprung up from scratched, dusty floorboards - briny breezes clambering through partially open windows, skittered the tang of bay rum, unwashed, sweaty men and fragrant pipe tobaccos past them.

It was as if they'd stepped into another world.

You see, domestic troubles in Konoha were relatively few, the occasional squabble between neighbors, kids playing hooky from school or stealing fruit from vendors – that sort of thing. It was rare for the noise level in this office to rise above a dull roar, for the majority of a Konoha constable's duties kept them well outside the confines of this brick and mortar establishment; paydays being the only exception. The constables worked and moved about with the pace of the people, their daily activities ranged from foot patrols through the shopping districts or along the docks, mounted patrols in the forests, along the border checkpoints or through the palatial manor homes west of the the town's center. Their constant presence used to be a source of comfort for the people . . . now it was a reminder of how fragile and uncertain life was. This morning however, it looked as if every uniformed officer on the force had crowded inside this building; it felt as if they were looking to one another, leaning on one another for support that the public was reluctant to give them.

And as he stood in the midst of this coordinated chaos, seeing with his own wearied eyes how well and how quickly his men were rebounding from the malaise of earlier, Ibiki felt himself stand taller, the feeling of emptiness slowly relinquishing his mind from its icy grip. The tiniest of grins tugged as his scarred lips as he surveyed the room, watching his men bobble about with the ebb and flow of routine.

Yes, this was his brand of normalcy, these men . . . his saving grace; the commotion of his worker bees attending to everyday duties had transformed a heretofore morose working atmosphere into a hive of purposeful activity. Hope, feeble at first, began stirring in the center of his heavy heart for Ibiki was now convinced of one thing: with the lower parts of their brains distracted by routine tasks, the higher part of their mind were being freed up to tinker with the puzzling pieces of a more complex issue - stopping a killer in his tracks.

Thankfully, there was enough 'routine' to be had by all.

Directly to his right and about fifteen feet away from the watch commander's desk, were assembled the usual complement of assorted, but harmless nuts – standing in their assigned places before the desk sergeant's area as they usually did the morning after another victim's discovery. This concerned citizen's choir sang a familiar refrain of questions, their voices modulating in perfect harmony as they ridiculed the constable's mental competency and railed against their inept handling of a homegrown horror; in between stanzas of this oft heard medley, was the child-like reprise of pleas for assurances of their continued safety.

To his left, at the far end of the wide open office space, four constables stood between a disgruntled merchant and an offended ship's captain; this was a routine, weekly occurrence and like all the other times, the reason for their loud and vulgar dispute had something to do with the delivery of damaged items and the refusal to pay for said items.

A crooked line of civilian patrol members, exhausted from last night's excursion into futility, propped themselves against the wall nearest the restroom behind the desk sergeant's area. This was a new twist. Mildly amused, some of them watched the show put on by the merchant and the seaman, others dozed off right where they stood, all of them waiting for a chance to turn in their reports and receive a chit for their service.

Lastly, seated at a desk nearest his left hand was a brokenhearted elderly woman weeping into her apron; she was another regular. Her fourteen year old grandson had snuck out of the house late last night as was his habit. The wringing of worried hands would eventually become the shaking of an angry, gnarled finger when the boy finally turned up - unharmed and apologetic as he always was after having been dragged into the constabulary by his ear. Seems the kid had an appetence to watch longshoremen load and unload cargo by the light of a full moon.

Wending through the roiling sea of people, having lost Shizune somewhere along the way, Ibiki stopped for a moment to snatch a cigar off a desk nearest the front door; this too had become part of his monthly routine.

At first, it seemed like the wizened, balding man behind the desk hadn't noticed the blatant theft, too occupied was he in sorting through a small mound of paperwork. But without warning, the older man lazily slapped his hand over a small box of matches before Ibiki could grab them too and sadly shook his head.

"You'll have to be a mite faster than that Inspector," he chuckled. "Besides, I thought you and tobacco parted ways some time ago."

"Ryota, a fine cigar, that's been dipped in cognac, is a necessary evil for me . . . and a successfully pilfered, fine cigar that's been dipped in cognac, tastes a thousand times sweeter. You wouldn't understand old-timer; it's a love/hate relationship, almost like the one I have with doing paperwork."

_Takenaka Ryota – this man had been a constable since Ibiki was in knee-britches; he'd trained just about everyone in this squad room, Ibiki included. Because of Ryota's keen, analytical mind, his no nonsense demeanor and exceptional leadership skills, he was sought after to fill the post of Inspector each time the position was vacated; he choose instead to remain as commander of the watch that he might share his wisdom and experience with each new generation of law enforcement personnel. Over the years he became a confidante, a mentor, an unstoppable fount of encouragement when the pressures of the job became too great for Ibiki and one who wouldn't hesitate to give him a swift kick in the pants._

"You'll get the matches," Ryota said as he fanned out several documents before him, "once I get your signature on all this stuff. And if you do it without too much grumbling, you'll get a bonus – ginger candy to settle your stomach."

It felt so good just to share a laugh with a colleague.

"How could I resist such a compelling offer," Ibiki asked when he reached across the desk for an ink brush, "especially when you phrased it as a bribe?"

Just as he was about to sign another overtime request, someone bumped into him from behind. Given the amount of people in this place, it wasn't that surprising; but this was no accident.

Ibiki turned slightly in enough time to see the back of a still agitated Kotetsu's head as he brushed past him with a snort and high-tailed it out the front door. A curious glance to the left and there stood an animated Genma speaking with Dr. Umino and Mr. Kamizuki near the seating area in the middle of the room. _Probably giving them_ _directions to the Fire Temple_, he thought.

Turning back to the watch commander and the last of the paperwork, Ibiki whispered, "You see those two talking with Shiranui over there?"

"Yeah," Ryota replied as he peered around Ibiki for a better look. "What about 'em?"

"I want you to assign a team to keep an eye on them and the man who just walked out of here." With two pieces of candied ginger and the match box now in his possession, he leaned closer. "I want to know where they go and what they do from the time they leave this station, until the time they leave the territory. Understood?"

"Yeah, sure thing. But, umm . . . they don't look like the normal grifters that hang around after the festivals. You think they might be spies . . . industrial saboteurs or something like that?"

Ibiki shook his head. "I'm not sure what their game is Ryota, just keep 'em under surveillance until further notice and have your team report directly to me." Straightening to his full height he said, "I'll got a meeting with Governor, so I'll be out of the office for a while-"

"Ibiki," he said cautiously, "last night, one of the civilian patrols found skeletal remains scattered in a forest clearing. My guess is, it was a hunter who either dropped dead of natural causes or the poor bastard got mauled by a bear. We'll know what happened for certain soon enough; I sent Raidou and Aoba to investigate the scene with instructions to bring the bones back to the Coroner as soon as possible."

"Hmm . . ." he murmured, rolling the tip of his appropriated cigar over his tongue. "Now, do me another favor and pull the -"

"Way ahead of you Chief; I've got every missing person report filed since the first of January, right here," he said drumming his fingers on a thick manila folder.

"Listen Ryota, the Governor's gonna be all over me like ugly on a gorilla about the Hyuga girl as it is. I don't need any more rumors flying around-"

"Ibiki," he said, "trust me to keep a lid on this until we get all the facts, okay? In the meantime, I suggest you concentrate on getting over to the Administrative complex on the double – our Governor's not exactly a patient woman." Sorting the signed documents into smaller piles, Ryota inclined his head toward the weeping grandmother. "Oh, and if you're looking for your escort, she's still standing over there."

"Thanks."

After catching her attention with a wave of his hand, Shizune gave the old woman a warm hug and hastened toward him. "That poor woman," she said when Ibiki grabbed her by the elbow to guide her toward the door. "It's just so sad."

"That grandson of hers just needs to dance to the tune of a hickory switch a couple of times - that'll straighten him out." Chucking the match box at Ryota's head as he passed by, he called, "Thanks again old man . . . we'll talk later."

The smell of sulfur from the match made his nose twitch, the tiny puff of smoke that rose up and blew back into his face made his eye water a happy tear. The thick blue grey smoke dancing around on his tongue with that first inhalation, delivered a much needed jolt of nicotine and soon he was grinning like a Cheshire cat. He heard himself give an involuntary sigh of content despite the disapproving look in Shizune's ebony eyes that greeted him when he emerged from a columbine haze.

"If you need a few minutes to unwind," she said gesturing to his cigar and the dissipating brume around him, "I don't mind waiting." She stood apace from him as he hurriedly puffed away. "Believe it or not, Lady Tsunade understands how busy your morning's been and I'm certain she won't fuss at you too much if we -"

"Tempting, but no . . . might as well get this over with as soon as possible. Let's go."

The people milling about in the plaza parted before them as they walked, many bowing their heads in deference to Shizune; the sad eyed smiles or angry glowers were reserved for and directed to him – again, this was another facet of normalcy.

"Shizune, tell me the truth," he said. "What sort of mood was the Governor in this morning?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "You know . . . it's hard to tell with her sometimes. She was just wrapping up a meeting with Hitomi's father and some his advisors when she passed a note to me requesting your presence. She was cordial and genuinely sympathetic while they were with her, but she may . . . or may not feel that way right now." 

Ibiki rolled his eyes skyward and took another long drag.

"We both know Hyuga Hiashi has a way of getting on her bad side Ibiki, even in those situations where compassion is expected to be reciprocated."

Having arrived at the Administrative complex far sooner than he wanted to, Ibiki leaned against the building with a world weary sigh, stubbing out his cigar against the bottom of his boot and tucking it away in between two widely spaced bricks.

In contrast to noisy constabulary and the lively plaza, once they stepped inside the interior double doors and into the foyer of the Administrative offices, the place was as quiet as a tomb. It smelled fresh in here, like an open meadow on a summer's day; the fragrance of frankincense still loitering in the air, weaving a lattice of tranquility long after the monks had given their daily blessing upon this office.

He'd traversed the glossy, inlaid floor bearing Konoha's seal - a spreading sugi tree, with such frequency these last few months that he could almost feel where each bough of the tree bifurcated under the soles of his boots. Even blindfolded he would have been able to safely navigate his way through every nook and cranny of the space.

To the right was an area, a small museum really, which housed artifacts, relics and brief, historical sketches of Konoha's progress through the years; this was the place where dignitaries were entertained as they waited to meet with the Governor. Portraits of the men who established and settled the territory hung from mahogany paneled walls, each of them smiling down on the plush leather upholstered chairs and the hand loomed carpets of silken threads that overspread sections of freshly waxed cedar floors.

On the left side of the space was a large seating area for the general public, it's surprisingly comfortable wooden chairs neatly organized in a semicircle, provided the ideal place for people to congregate, to chew the fat while they waited to file or receive copies of vital records – birth, death, marriage, deeds to land, and such like. Large, terracotta pots filled with indigenous plants, wildflowers and dwarf trees were arranged before floor to ceiling windows that opened onto the plaza.

Straight ahead, a massive orbicular reception desk and hospitality area separated the accommodation areas from the great hall and the Governor's private suite of offices. Of the five clerks behind the desk, all but one of them turned their backs as he approached - a robust, oily faced woman who smiled benevolently when she caught his eye. This too was something that shaped the routine of these past months.

Deftly steering him away from the sharp clucking tongues of the clerks, Shizune ushered him inside a conference room beside the reception area. This room, with its knotted pine walls was usually where he spent his time, watching Lady Tsunade pace alongside the conference table, listening to her curse up a storm over his inability to collar a killer even as tears streamed down her cheeks.

But when Ibiki moved to take his customary seat, Shizune waved him off.

"Oh, no, no Inspector," she said. "Lady Tsunade wishes to speak with you in her private office."

_Crap, that wasn't a good sign._

The Governor's main office was a place where the rich and powerful met to broker agreements, to sign concords of peace or trade between nations and to exchange meaningless blandishments over premium sake and rich food. The last time he was called to this office was the day of his appointment as Chief Inspector; how fitting to end his career in the same place it began.

"Come on in Ibiki," he heard the Governor say in response to the Shizune's light rap on the door.

She had her back to them when they walked in and for a moment, Ibiki was stunned to see her long blonde hair tumbling in a cascade of loose waves down the back of a forest green haori; it was usually piled high on her head and held in place by ornately lacquered pins. The black hakama and the low heeled slippers she wore meant there were no official events on her calendar today, that or she'd been roused from her bed in much the same way as he'd been.

She turned to face him, a cheerful smile, not the scowl he expected on her lips, a small book in her hand and a pince-nez resting on her nose. She almost looked pleased to see him.

That _had_ to be a bad omen.

A light dusting of rouge tinted impossibly high cheekbones, her eyes, bright and saffron yellow twinkled above flawless, smooth skin, ecru in color like raw silk. Hard to believe the woman he was looking at was rumored to be in her mid-fifties. Tall, not as willowy as her assistant, she still cut a figure envied by women half her age.

"Ma'am," he bowed and said. "You wished to see me?"

Shizune was dismissed with a wave of a dainty hand. "Have a seat," she said, gesturing to the small table in the corner of the room where a tea set waited. "Not sure if you had a chance to have breakfast yet, so I ordered something from the inn down the street for both of us. Go on, sit down."

Ibiki still wasn't sure what to make of her or this extraordinary turn of events, but he did as instructed, warily sitting on the edge of a plumply cushioned chair.

She'd left the book on the edge of the desk, her glasses swung from the sterling silver and ebony brooch she always wore as she approached him. Taking the seat beside him, she said, "I don't know about you Ibiki, but my day got off to a helluva start. First thing this morning, I had to deal with the head of the Hyuga family and his solicitors; they just left here about twenty minutes ago. Outraged of course," she said, pouring tea for him. "They stridently sought your immediate resignation or better yet . . . your head on a pike."

Pursed pink lips blew at the rising steam of her tea cup. "Relax Ibiki", she said after a beat, "I have no intention of delivering either of those things to them. Underneath all the bluster, I could tell Hiashi was disconsolate; he was surprisingly more cooperative and understanding than I expected."

There was another light rap at the door before Shizune entered with a silver tray laden down with several small dishes and another pot of tea. She gave him another one of her encouraging smiles and an extra helping of steamed rice before she slipped quietly from the room once more.

"We've got eight slaughtered women," Tsunade whispers, gathering up a helping of tarako with her ivory chopsticks. "And nary a suspect in custody – that's a real pain in the ass for you, I know. So, how are you and your men holding up?"

"Well, considering that our normal 'crime sprees' are restricted to rousting drunkenly abusive sailors from the boarding house or the taverns," he said around a mouthful of omelet, "we're holding up rather well."

An arched eyebrow seemed to say, _"Is that so, Ibiki?"_

"Well, you look like you've been ridden hard and put away wet Inspector," she joshed. "It's true, most of the criminal activities your men encounter are limited to pickpockets and scam artists that pop up like toadstools after a soaking rain during the festivals. The type of violence they usually deal with is breaking up fights in the watering holes near the docks. And then there's the occasional disturbance at the cathouse . . . err, pardon me, the boarding house." A sip of creamy miso soup elicited a groan of delight from her. "That's as sticky politically as anything they're accustomed to, am I right? Those types of 'incidents' are prohibited from inclusion in the official police blotter because the boarding house generates substantial revenue, heavy 'entertainment' taxes are levied on and dutifully paid by the property owner, who coincidentally happens to arrange 'liaisons' for some of our visiting dignitaries and some of Konoha's upstanding and very married men." 

Ibiki picked at his spinach gomaae, no longer interested in filling his belly – she was about to lower the boom on him, he could tell.

"I know damn well this string of murders has extracted an inordinate toll on you and your men, she said plainly. "Their morale dips lower month by month as they try and fail to defend the people against a force unseen, unknown and freely walking among them." A ceramic spoon came to rest atop her now empty soup bowl. Rising from the table, she walked back to her desk adding, "I know you'd lay down your life to protect the people of this territory if ever the situation required it Ibiki." The book she was reading earlier was in her hand when she turned back to him. "I'm convinced you and your men will leave no stone unturned in order to capture the man responsible for wreaking havoc in the territory. However -"

"Ma'am, I appreciate your confidence in my and our constables," he said. The '_let's just get down to brass tacks, hurry up and chew me out,_' speech went unsaid. "I'm grateful that you allowed me to keep my job and my head, but I'm especially appreciative of your impeccable sense of timing that drew me out of three very exasperating situations this morning as well."

Draping her napkin over her lap when she retook her seat she chuckled, "I know keeping you and Hyuga Hiashi separated was one, what were the other two?"

"Being talked to death by Genma for one thing, and minimizing the pounding headache I felt coming on after speaking with three brash young men. They frittered away my time with tall tales and a family heirloom; an ancient picture book."

"I would have thought you'd be used to that sort thing by now," she said flipping pages in her own book beside her plate. "But now, they're bringing in their own books? How creative. Anyway, are your men any closer to developing some solid leads on our murderer?"

"No ma'am, nothing yet, however, I was informed that some skeletal remains were found in the forest last night and I-"

"Damn," she said, slamming the book closed. "Don't tell me we have _nine _victims now!"

"I don't think so ma'am . . . it's probably a hunter. Once Genma's analyzed the remains and we've cross checked our missing person's reports, I'll be able to give you a more definite answer."

00-00

An anxious Dr. Umino sat in the waiting area near the reception desk; his companions were keeping Genma busy as a tour guide, patiently allowing him to show off points of interest, as he rattled off anecdotes along the way to the Fire Temple. Iruka had excused himself from the trip that he might return to the inn and stow away the portfolio after extracting one important piece of documentation.

"Next," said the smiling, robust, oily-faced clerk.

"Good morning, ma'am" he said, handing over a crisp piece of parchment. "I'm not sure of the protocol, but I'd like to -"

"Please sir," she said with a smile, her wide eyes skimming over the document. "Give me a moment," she told him as she sought out another clerk's assistance.

After a few exchanged nods and whispers, she returned and said, "Well . . . this is definitely the Governor's signature on her personal stationery and everything else appears to be in order. Unfortunately, the Governor's schedule is rather hectic for the remainder of this week. Might you be available to take a meeting with her next week, Mr. err, Dr. Umino?"

"Oh, no I'm afraid that won't do," he insisted. "This is a matter of grave import."

"Perhaps you'd like to speak with her assistant then?"

00-00

Sounds of renovation, the squeal of pry bars yanking rusty nails from large wooden crates, the shush of rip saws biting into dense cedar and the voices of servants directing workmen from room to room; these were muted now as the tall, olive-skinned man slowly descended steep, slate stairs into the belly of the stately home. Yellow candlelight flickered from his handheld lantern casting a weak beam of light into the heavy darkness that hemmed him in on every side. The palm of his other hand helped maintain his balance as the staircase narrowed near its junction with the flagstone floor of the subterranean vault.

The news he'd just received was urgent and unpleasant; his master had to be informed of this development at once. But, disturbing a numen at rest carried significant risk to life and limb, for his master was a violent being, one who derived pleasure from inflicting unspeakable acts of cruelty upon those who interrupted his daily routine. Were he to wake him now, so soon after he'd taken to his bed, the odds were great that he'd be splayed open from neck to navel in the span of a breath. Were he to wait until the master stirred of his own volition, a severe beating awaited him for delaying news of such importance.

With every step that brought him closer to the antechamber, Kinoe's heart frantically beat against his ribcage, pearls of perspiration turned into rivulets of sweat running alongside his ears. At one point, his hands shook so violently he was forced to set down the lantern for fear of extinguishing his only available light source. Flattening down thick, dark brown hair with sweaty palms, he took a breath and pulled together the fleeing oddments of his courage.

Once again, he moved closer to the place where his master lay, ignoring the pain as the thin wire handle of the lantern cut into his palm, measuring each breath as though it might be his last; a nudge of the shoulder barely pushed the solid door ajar, its hinges faintly groaning. Soft leather soles glided across limestone slates as Kinoe approached the raised platform in the center of the room.

The bed of his master, a pyramidal structure of finest Cryptomeria, was widest at its base with three broad steps leading up to the bed itself; leaving the lantern beside the bullnose, Kinoe cautiously stood on the first tread. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind by the time he reached the second tread – here he knelt, bowed his head in submission and rapped his knuckles against the riser beneath the bed's frame.

"Master," he said quietly. "I have exigent news sir."

His lord shifted slightly at the sound of his voice, but did not awaken. Kinoe thought to rap once more when out of the blue, cold, powerful fingers wrapped themselves around his throat, lifting him upward until the tips of his toes bumped against the first riser, pulling him closer to the side of the bed and squeezing the breath from him.

A voice, deep and menacing said:

"It damn well better be Kinoe."

Almond shaped eyes widened in fear – "Master," he choked out. "Umino arrived . . . last night . . . took a meeting . . . with Morino . . . this morning."

At once, the hand around his throat was gone and Kinoe was sailing through the air – his back crashing against the stone wall to the right of the master's bed.

"Have Maito hound his every step," he heard his master say over the pain wracking his battered body. "I want a through account of his movements when I awake."

Scrabbling to his knees, his vision swimming, and his breathing labored, "Yes master," he finally whispered. "I will see to it at once."

Grateful his life had been spared, the sound of his master's laughter rose above him, echoing throughout the chamber, fetid and noxious as Kinoe crawled backward to the door.

"Let us hope," his master said, "the younger Umino proves a greater challenge than his father was."

NOTES:

**Welkin**: the sky; the vault of heaven.

**Voluble**: characterized by a ready and continuous flow of words; talkative.

**Flotsam and jetsam**: specific kinds of shipwreck – flotsam floating wreckage of a ship or its cargo; jetsam – part of a ship, its equipment or cargo, purposely thrown overboard to lighten the load in times of distress and washed ashore.

**Wending**: (archaic) – to proceed or go.

**Chit: **a signed note for money owed to the bearer of the note.

**Appetence**: intense desire.

**Grifter**: one who operates a side show at a circus or fair, especially a gambling attraction; a swindler.

**Columbine**: dove colored; grey.

**Brume**: fog or mist.

**Bifurcate**: to divide or fork into two branches.

**Orbicular**: like an orb; circular, ring like, spherical.

**Cryptomeria [japonica]**: a conifer in the cypress family; endemic to Japan where it is known as **sugi**. A large evergreen tree, with spirally arranged leaves (needle-like) and globular seed cones; superficially similar to the Giant Sequoia.

**Pince-nez**: a style of glasses supported without earpieces by pinching the bridge of the nose. Uncomfortable to wear for long periods of time, they were usually suspended by a ribbon or chain around the neck. Women made use of a brooch-like device pinned to their clothing which would automatically retract the line to which the glasses were attached when not in use. Wikipedia contributors. "Pince-nez." _Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia_. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, 21 Aug. 2014. Web. 18 Dec. 2014.

**Tarako: **is a salted roe derived from cod, usually enjoyed with breakfast.

**Spinach gomaae**: goma means 'sesame seed' in Japanese; Gaom-ae are dishes prepared with sesame sauce.

**Oddment**: an odd article, bit or remnant.

**Exigent**: requiring immediate action or aid; urgent, pressing.

**Bullnose**: where steps are open on one or both sides.

**Tread: **horizontal part of a stairway that is stepped on.

**Riser**: vertical part of a stairway between each tread.

**Numen**: a deity, especially one presiding locally.

Recherché


End file.
